


Smoke.

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, But Greg Don't Mind It, Cigarettes, Coming In Pants, Facials, M/M, Sherlock's A Manipulative Little So-and-So, Smart-Arse Remarks, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 19:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3821914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*<br/>Greg's trying to quit, "to stay alive for _you_, yeh know." But Sherlock wants to watch him smoke just one last one, and doesn't Sherlock always get what he wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smoke.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YoursTruly (Lyscey)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyscey/gifts).



> YoursTruly, that creative and crafty minx, prompted: blow jobs and cigarette-smoking.
> 
> OH FUCK YES.

Sherlock is all over him, more fingers than can be counted, at least two extra hands, boneless legs wrapped around and shoved between and squeezing and gently rutting with the promise of more to come.

“Just one?” Draws it out, pouts the lip, wide sad eyes like a spaniel. “Just one. . .last. . .one?”

“You’re impossible.” Greg huffs it. Sherlock really is completely, unrepentantly incorrigible.

Recently-manicured, glossy-tipped fingers slide into every pocket: jacket (sniffs the neck), then the inside one (nuzzles with chin and—almost—lips), shirt (mewling little sound in the ear, sighing breath to go with it), trousers—back (pulls back to show off the pout again, he’s crafty), trousers—front (crazy grin that gives him away, the manipulative little. . .)

“Christ!”

“Just one.” Nods, agreeing with himself, planting a suggestion.

“I’m trying to quit so I can stay alive for _you_ , yeh know.”

“I’m very grateful. Just one won’t kill you.”

He leans away, finds a packet with a few rolling around inside, in the drawer of his own desk. Crafty. Manipulative.With that pout. And those fingers absolutely everywhere. Sherlock shakes one loose, sets it between his own teeth, hanging out the corner of his mouth, street-tough. God, that mouth of his.

“ _Please_.” Just a half-step above a whisper. He takes it between his first two fingers, drags it across his lips, up the jaw, around the brow, closed-eyed, then leans in close, dangling it in the air beside their two faces as the million other fingers go after the top buttons of his shirt. “Please,” he says again, and now it’s got a syllable and a half, the explosive puff at the beginning clearly overemphasized to make his breath known against Greg’s skin. “P’lease. . .p’lease. . .” Fingertips tickling through the hairs on his chest. “ _P’lease_.”

“Haven’t got a light.” Irrepressible smile. Sherlock’s not the only tease here.

Leans away again, but the thigh shifts forward and up, and the sliding pressure of it against Greg’s bollocks even through his trousers is crazymaking. Sherlock returns with the filter end back between his lips, and that brass lighter with the monogram (not his) that disappears for weeks on end but always comes back around like a bad penny. He lights up, draws a bit and holds it in before blowing it up and away. Clenches it between his fingertips once more and his mouth makes a dark pink ‘O’ that is a mirror-cue for Greg to open his own mouth, and he does, and then it’s between his own lips and he instinctively pinches it between thumb and forefinger, drags soft and slow forever, god damn he’ll never be able to quit because of the way Sherlock is looking at him right now: hooded eyes, hungry, unguarded,wanton.

Greg’s hand goes behind Sherlock’s neck and pulls him almost close enough to kiss, and Sherlock is already inhaling before Greg starts to blow, and there is a bit of overflow smoke wafting between their faces but Sherlock’s game and eager and sucks and sucks and then seals their lips shut in a brief kiss before he falls away, holds it, closes his eyes, bloody gorgeous, danger on legs, a walking-talking-neon-red-flag of everything Greg should never, ever tangle with. The pale blue eyes laze open and the black centers sparkle even in the dim light cast all that long distance from the kitchen’s buzzing overhead fixture here to the far wall of the lounge, near the window, so the smoke can get out.

Sherlock unbuttons his shirt cuffs and surely he knows precisely what he’s doing as he parts his lips and a plume of the smoke Greg has just fed him arcs up, into his nostril, of course he can fucking French-inhale—of course he fucking can, because it’s a proven winner, it works a fucking _treat_ , dunnit—and he can probably do smoke-rings, too, beautiful ones that circle his head like an angel’s halo.

Once the smoke’s been recycled, Sherlock lets it out on a long, soft sigh—he must be dizzy by now—and now that the cuffs are unbuttoned, up goes the shirt, up and off, tossed to the carpet like it didn’t cost as much as Greg earns in a week. Impossible fingers tweaking his own nipples ‘til they bead up hard and darken to a pink just this side of dusky. And he’s all but forgotten it, a phantom appendage, dangling between finger and thumb beside his hip.

“Smoke,” Sherlock commands.

Doesn’t he just always get what he wants.

Greg flicks the tip of ash into the green glass ashtray teetering on the window sill. He licks his lips, closes them around the filter, draws long and deep, holds it away from himself, blows out and down so the silvery-white smoke clouds between their two chests. Sherlock’s eager hands have made quick work of Greg’s belt, button, zip; he hooks his thumbs in at the sides of Greg’s waist and pushes down trousers and pants together. A covetous downward glance and Sherlock rumbles out a hum that makes Greg’s already-attendant prick leap up for a closer look. Those icy eyes cut a sideways look toward Greg’s hovering hand and damned if he doesn’t draw it to his mouth to take another drag, dutifully obeying Sherlock’s silent order.

That cunning pink tongue darts out, leaves the lips shining and dewy and Greg settles back hard in the meagre corner between window casing and bookshelves, relaxes his knees. He blows the smoke out hard through both nostrils, fire-breathing fucking dragon, and it jet-streams before collapsing into a soft billow. Sherlock sloppily licks his fingers, spits into his palm, dear jeezus goes for Greg’s cock and squeezes and slides. A matched set of deep groans, then Sherlock ducks and weaves until Greg fits the butt between Sherlock’s eager, open lips, and he draws quick and deep, then hovers his open mouth just out of reach, and Greg inhales as Sherlock exhales, gently. . . _gently_. . .curling clouds escaping out the edges to put tears in the corners of their closed eyes.

The bony hand goes again and Greg can’t help but puff up his chest, a damn good smoke and a damn gorgeous boy fondling him . . .ain’t it good to be the king. His bollocks are rolled and lifted and caressed as he sets the filter between his teeth, lets it dangle from the corner of his mouth, half-closed eyes, jutting chin.

“On your knees, Poppet.”

It’s a gamble; he can dig in his heels (can he!), but Sherlock does as he’s told, holding Greg’s gaze as he settles himself down, sitting on his heels because isn’t he walking through life on seven-league legs. Spidery fingers reclaim their place and Sherlock’s face as he looks up is lustful-tinged-with-naughty; clearly he knows what he’s doing but it’s so fucking gorgeous Greg chooses not to mind the artifice. Remnants of an insubstantial drag drift out between his lips. Sherlock’s tongue flicks out and circles the perfect, wide ‘O’ of his mouth. Clever lad—he’s settled himself low, so he can look up, and watch.

Silky-wet tongue and lips engulf his crown and there’s a rush of hot metal from the center of his chest outward, and Greg melts, hums, twists the fingers of his free hand through the waves of Sherlock’s fringe. Sherlock’s eyes are wide open, it’s perverse, weirdly raw and especially filthy, and as Sherlock works Greg’s foreskin back with the tip of his busy tongue, circling and shoving and teasing at the edges, Greg is all panting exhalations and audible gusts of breath. A loud “ _Auhh_!” expels air enough that he can suck a drag, thumbnail ragged against his own bottom lip, and Sherlock emits a low, rumbling hum around his prick so that Greg’s next grunting moan rides out of his mouth on a cloud of pale grey smoke.

Sherlock’s skinny fingers encircle his prick, but only to steady it, maddeningly still around his length as Sherlock focuses intensely on the head of Greg’s cock, tongue-tip slithering up and down the little slit at the tip, then circling quick, circling slow, his lips loosening to let saliva pool where it’s needed, then sucking tightly closed around him. All the while, the sky-blue eyes with their dead-star centers staring up at Greg’s mouth, at what’s left of the cigarette, at the smoke whorls hovering in the air.

Two more drags, he figures, and maybe two minutes if Sherlock keeps this up. Sets the filter in the center of his lips and puckers around it, half-closed eyes meeting Sherlock’s. _Like that, do you? Show me._ He draws, lifts it away, opens his mouth but doesn’t exhale.

Sherlock moans, breaks contact, rubs desperately at the front placket of his own trousers.

Greg feels the self-satisfied half-smile curl his mouth as he quickly ashes it, then puffs out the smoke: _Huh. Huh._ . . _huh_.

Sherlock sucks, licks, slides his mouth farther down Greg’s shaft, makes a high sound in the top of his throat behind his nose. His hips are rocking up against his palm. Fuck if he’s not going to come in his trousers like a bloody teenager, and fuck if that isn’t the hottest fucking thing. . .

“Look, Poppet.” Greg has repositioned the stub between the knuckles of middle and ring fingers, slowly sucks the tip of his own thumb between his teeth, drags it out again. Sherlock breathes heavily out his nostrils and his hand—at last—begins to move, shifting skin up and back by infinitesimal measures, fucking perfect, unbelievable, and Greg sets his fingertips against his lips and sucks in the last drag, long and slow, then exhales it hard and quick, up and out the corner of his mouth. Leaves the butt burning in the ashtray and lays both hands on Sherlock’s head, palms at his throbbing temples (Greg feels his jaw working, it’s glorious), fingers in his hair, not guiding, just _there_. Sherlock’s eyes meet Greg’s for a half-second before he closes them, and his pelvis is rolling hard as he palms himself, and his tongue pulsates flat and wide against the crown of Greg’s prick as he sucks, sucks, hums, sucks. . .

Greg skates the edge as long as he can manage, but then Sherlock makes a desperate, muffled yelping sound, and his shoulders shudder, and god love this lad, he keeps on sucking right through it, and the vibration of his moaning is what finally tips Greg over—no, not tips, fucking _shoves_ , from behind, two-handed, off a fucking _cliff_ , and Greg jerks Sherlock’s head back in time to come across his open mouth, on his cheek, down the edge of his jaw, as Sherlock mutters encouragements that sound like demands and cradles Greg’s bollocks in his hand, rolling them just so that Greg vaguely imagines—but also does not care—that he might actually die.

Greg lets his head loll back, thudding into the corner between the window casing and the bookshelf, and Sherlock fetches his shirt off the carpet and mops his face. A few long moments of panting and appreciative, exclamatory expletives, then Greg rolls his heavy head on his neck to look down at Sherlock: bossy, needy, manipulative, perfect, exquisite,

“Oh, Poppet. . .”

Sherlock looks so pleased with himself, grinning his got-away-with-murder smile. He lifts one eyebrow suggestively.

“Smoke?”

 

-END-

 


End file.
